The Exquisite

by Laird Hunt

  I nodded and he brought the balloon close to my mouth. It bobbed in front of my face. I shook my head.

  There is less morphine in you now than there was earlier, certainly less than there was last night, he said. He ate his balloon, very slowly, very neatly. It didn’t pop, just grew smaller, bite by careful bite. When he was finished, he said, we have things in common, young thief, then he went away.

  He came back near dawn.

  What do you want? I said.

  Listen, dear Henry, and I’ll tell you. May I?

  I nodded. He crossed his legs and wrapped his hands around his knee. He cracked his neck loudly then began speaking.

  Once upon a time, he said, there was a man who lived in a large Dutch town in the center of drab, flat farmland, where he had been obliged to do day labor as a child and to eat all manner of foul things, which were advertised as fresh and healthy and were neither. The man had grown up to become a maker of inexpensive quivers and had been bad at it and had married unsuccessfully because that was the sort of luck he had so he became a thief. He stole scrap iron from a blacksmith to sell to a cooper and flour from a baker to sell to local housewives. He stole three copper coins from an apothecary and a bolt of blue silk off the back of a milliner’s cart. He stole eggs and whole cheeses and bundles of hops and once the corpse of a foal, which he attempted to sell for its hooves. For a long time he was unable to rid his mind of the smell of the rotting foal, even though he had tied a rope to it and dragged it well behind him. Then he got run out of town. He was not hurt badly, but was badly scared and was nervous around open fire for the brief remainder of his days. For a time he wandered. Autumn gave way to brutal winter. After knocking about at loose ends for some weeks he ended up in Amsterdam. In Amsterdam, his luck went from poor to very bad. A woman he groped at one night took his purse and left blood dripping from his right eye. The next day he attempted to knock someone down and to steal this someone’s cape. He had been drinking. A kind of potato spirit. Very potent. He had procured a large knife, a jagged, rusty job with a bad handle. What he attempted to do was not what he did. His efforts were approximate. The someone he attempted to knock down and whom he had slightly wounded with the knife, the handle of which had crumbled during the attack, was a magistrate. Not a great magistrate. Not the magistrate behind door number one or two, the magistrate behind door number four or five, but still, a magistrate, and a vigorous, broad-shouldered one at that, who got up, flung down our drunken thief, and promised, through clenched teeth, to deliver him to justice. He was duly arrested, beaten, tried, hung. Within hours, perhaps as an extension of his punishment, his corpse was taken to the Waaggebouw, a medical amphitheater, where, before an audience of Amsterdam’s finest citizens and foreign guests, possibly including such luminaries as René Descartes and Sir Thomas Browne, it was opened and sectioned with a scalpel and a number of fine saws. Rembrandt, who was also in attendance that day and made sketches, later immortalized the event in one of his most famous paintings, The Anatomy Lesson. Are you familiar with that painting?

  I think so, I said.

  I’m sure you know it. I’ll have to see if I can put my hands on a reproduction, there are some very faithful ones available. Of course these widely available reproductions lack texture and ruin the colors, but they will give you the idea, put across the gist.

  I’d like that, but …

  But why, my dear Henry, am I telling you this?

  I nodded.

  You should sleep now, he said. You are not well and I’ve troubled you enough.

  No trouble at all, I said.

  That’s very nice of you to say, but still, I should go.

  Before you do, why don’t you tell me what it is you think we have in common?

  Mr. Kindt looked at me with his pale blue eyes. He licked his lips and leaned closer.

  What we have in common is that we’re both thieves, Henry. Not terribly successful ones.

  NINE

  New York is swell. It is swell on a cold wet night and it is swell on a cold clear dawn. It is swell with the cars coming fast toward you and it is swell down by the subway tracks, where the people come to gather and watch each other and wait. It is swell with the attractive denizens and with those who are not, including those, like you, who might once have been. It is swell with the shop lights and it is swell with its skyscrapers and acres of rubble and brilliant glass-strewn streets with everyone loving everything and moving through the haze of airborne particles saying fuck you. It is swell with its parks and harsh, windswept open spaces, with its beautiful giant bridges, with its great river and grim estuary, its cardboard villages, its scaffolding, its doves in the morning, its sparrows and pigeons and hawks and wild parrots basking in the sun. Its layers of sonic and visual complexity are swell. Swell too is the little girl screeching with delight on the carousel at Bryant Park, while the cars go by, bits of garbage flick through the air, the wind irritates the trees, chairs are scraped again and again over gravel, the ground rumbles distantly as the trains plow the dark tunnels, grackles fight, small, unseen electric explosions, wrecking balls, gobs of spittle smacking the pavement, someone claps, someone taps the Gertrude Stein statue on the shoulder, someone stumbles on an abandoned bright pink beauty-company supply case. Astoria and Fort Greene and Hell’s Kitchen and Spanish Harlem and Washington Heights and Cobble Hill are swell. Swell, as we have already seen, are the museums, movies, bathhouses, and restaurants frequented by petty hoods. A woman says, where are they all going? Another slaps her Bible shut. A man groans a little as he stoops to pick up a weather-stained pamphlet from the Church of Scientology. Two boys dressed in identical oversized Knicks jerseys take turns kicking a plastic Yoo-hoo bottle and doing beautiful 360-degree jumps over every crack. New York is unbelievably swell with its loud surfaces and sharp, sweeping contours, even more so with its endless peripheral zones. There people are told to hush or leave, to stand with their faces pressed against wet brick, to back away slowly, to curl up in a ball, to pay for that hot dog, to hand over a few bucks for a little New York City porn. You get, say, five minutes, and you open the magazine you’ve chosen and you’ve got this guy and another guy and three gals and some objects or you’ve got this gal and this gal and maybe a table and some green underwear or maybe a couch and a guy and a magazine or a guy with big hair and bad features wearing bell-bottoms, holding a book, listening to a “hi-fi,” and a young gal wearing a cream-colored fur-lined negligee enters stage left looking surprised and even more surprised, in the next panel, when the guy is standing and opening his pants.

  New York is swell, you think, as you leave the brightly lit shop, warmed in the body though not in the heart, and get back onto the glittering, grimy street. As you walk toward the neon billboards and giant television screens of Times Square you think about New York’s swellness in almost cosmic terms, wondering where it begins and where it stops, and what is all that why in the middle, and then you leave off thinking and are just walking, past face after face backed by stone, steel, and dark brick, down into the subway and then out again at Fourteenth and First, where your mind flicks back on and you realize you just spent five bucks in a porn shop looking at what now seem like grotesqueries, pure and simple, and that you’re broke and hungry and that, even though things have been much better lately, even though New York is so swell in so many ways, things are still far from perfect, far from soothing, far from, moment to moment, ideal. So you head over to see Mr. Kindt, your dear friend, who often feeds you, who often talks to you at great length about not uninteresting things, who frequently eases the pain of parting, now that you have exhausted your own supply of funds, at the end of the evening. Mr. Kindt, who greets you at the door on this particular night, this night that is now in question, before you’ve even rung the bell and who says to you, come in, come in, Henry, I’m so glad you decided to drop by. It feels like it has been ages. What on earth have you been up to? Was it just the day before yesterday that you accompanied me to Russ and Daugh
ters? There is a little of the pickled whitefish left and some dried pears. You can take it with you later. Where have you been? Never mind. I’m so happy to see you. Your timing couldn’t be more perfect. Mr. Kindt, who says, you see, I would like, this evening, to introduce you to a murderer.

  A murderer? you say.

  He has ushered you into the front room. There is some unfamiliar outerwear hanging on the eighteenth-century cherrywood coatrack. You hear voices. You go into the living/dining room, Mr. Kindt’s hand on your elbow, his breathing a little louder than usual. A small man with gray hair, deep wrinkles, and large, indistinct features turns toward you.

  Here he is, says Mr. Kindt.

  Hello, you say.

  Hello, says the murderer.

  He cordially shakes your hand and asks you how you do and you tell him that the day has been difficult for various reasons, but, as is always the case when you walk through Mr. Kindt’s front door, things have improved.

  I know exactly what you mean, says the murderer.

  You are both too kind, but there is really no need, says Mr. Kindt.

  Then you eat, the four of you, no, the five—you, plus Mr. Kindt, plus Tulip, plus the murderer, plus the murderer’s guest, who is just returning to the room from the toilet with a cell phone pressed against her ear. She is a knockout. She is almost as tall as Tulip, has gorgeous mahogany skin, broad shoulders, and mile-long legs, and is bald. She slips her tiny phone into an orange shoulder bag.

  I hope it’s all right, she says, not to you but to Mr. Kindt. I’ve asked a friend to join us.

  Mr. Kindt does not mind. He says as much and smiles, and when he smiles his little blue eyes are sucked back into his face and his rather bad but not unsightly teeth are exposed. He waves his hand over the bowls of nuts and olives and cubed Gouda that are spread out over the table. He says, we will just nibble and chat until they get here.

  We nibble and chat. The knockout tells a story about a cab that almost ran her over and how she took off her heels, chased it down at the next light, and smashed out one of its rearview mirrors with a rock. You don’t believe a word of the story but admire the way she tells it, punctuating her sentences with the brisk ingestion of carrots and cheese cubes. You know this is not how she is doing it, but each time you look away you have the impression that she is lifting the cheese and carrots with a single finger and popping them into her mouth. There are numerous embellishments to the story. You all listen, although for part of her account, the murderer and Mr. Kindt put their heads together and murmur. While she speaks, you try lifting an olive with your index finger and send it rolling toward Tulip, who doesn’t notice its approach. It leaves a line of oil on the dark wood, a faint trace of its pointless trajectory. The murderer, whom you think you have just heard say “the Benny problem,” although it could just as easily have been “the Lenny or the Kenny problem,” pulls his head away from Mr. Kindt’s, reaches over, winks at you, and plucks it up.

  The buzzer sounds and the knockout’s friend has arrived, only it is three friends not one. So now you are dining in company with seven people, one of whom is a murderer, or actually two of whom are murderers, you find out after you’ve all begun tucking into Mr. Kindt’s heavy beef and carrot and shiitake stew.

  I have just recently, says the second murderer, by way of introduction, become one.

  Job, I say.

  I go by Anthony, he says.

  No one else makes any introductory statement.

  Mr. Kindt, who has been seeing to something in the kitchen, comes and puts his hand on your shoulder and leans close and tells you that although it had never crossed his mind prior to your “kind intervention,” he has given some desultory thought to your offer to help him.

  Yeah? you say.

  Tonight, my boy, he says, there might be something you could do, or that you might wish to do, and that I would be happy for you to do, if you decide to.

  His hand presses into your shoulder and you notice the first murderer looking and smiling at you and you notice Tulip looking at the first murderer and smiling at him.

  Does it possibly have anything to do with me murdering anyone? you say.

  Yes, Mr. Kindt says. I hope the prospect doesn’t bother you.

  Not at all, you say, not sure how else to answer, given the hush you feel surrounding you.

  That’s fine, Henry, Mr. Kindt says, and returns to his seat.

  Not at all, you say again.

  Then the first murderer begins talking about the close connection between the sugar industry and the art world in Europe, and Mr. Kindt is all ears.

  The connection is very clear, says the murderer.

  I’m sure it is, says Mr. Kindt.

  The knockout is talking again too—she has started up a conversation with Tulip and the two other friends. The two friends watch her very closely, their heads making small, quick gestures, and Tulip pours and sips brandy and you, although you are just slightly discomfited by the outcome of your offer to reciprocate Mr. Kindt’s kindness, eat your stew.

  It is as if, the murderer says, all the great works were dipped in and coated with sugar …

  And the knockout says, and that is how, after the second incident, I repaired my arm …

  I have been tempted, at the Munch Museum for instance, though I did not in fact do it, to slip forward, tongue-first, and test the veracity of this proposition …

  You can see, if you look closely, that it really was very badly damaged, and that my method was quite effective …

  Of course I know I would be disappointed …

  In the final analysis, there was no lasting harm …

  I find Munch most fascinating, but not for The Scream. I admire The Scream, in fact once I owned a good print, but I have never found it fascinating …

  Look, you can still see it …

  Etc.

  Later, after dinner, you have a chance to speak privately with the knockout.

  Wanna come home with me, take a number, she says.

  You withdraw.

  Job, who goes by Anthony, a.k.a. the second murderer, whom you have not seen at the bar in quite some time, is standing near the window. Dark hair, long, taut muscles. Very handsome.

  Hey, you say.

  Evening, he says.

  You ask him if he minds talking.

  As long as it isn’t about my name or about my former place of employment or about anything personal, he says.

  So how you got involved in this is out-of-bounds?

  He thinks a minute. He shrugs. Tulip’s a friend, he says. She told me about the opening. She introduced me around. I’ve got debts.

  And Tulip’s got a lot of friends, you say.

  Anthony looks over at Tulip, who is bent over talking to the knockout. They are quite a pair. Your heart executes a perfect backflip and hits the water without a splash.

  He turns back to me, one of his eyebrows raised. Next question, he says.

  I’m not interviewing you.

  You could have fooled the fuck out of me.

  O.K., how did your first murder go?

  You want me to talk about that?

  Talk, I say.

  He goes over to the table, takes a piece of stew-soaked bread off his plate, puts some cheese on it, and comes back.

  It was fucked, he says, inserting the lion’s portion of the bread into his mouth, chewing then leaning in close. He smells like lemon balm and lavender. There are one or two beads of sweat on his muscular throat. Some skin connected to his jaw twitches like someone is sticking it with a miniature cattle prod. Past his right shoulder, through the window and the black netting, the lights of Tompkins Square bob and glitter. Fucked up. Bizarre. Unpleasant. Messy. Yuck. Pick a word. I didn’t like it at all. And I’ll tell you something else, it wasn’t even supposed to be a murder, it was just supposed to be a warning, a little friendly advice, cease and desist, pursue other avenues, get the fuck out of town. Just ask them.

  “Them” is the two friends,
two young women, fraternal twins, he notes, whose job, he says, during such jobs, is, when/if necessary, to hold people down. They both stand and step forward. The one with straight, shoulder-length jet-black hair grins and flexes her suddenly impressive arm muscles. The one with straight, shoulder-length pomegranate-colored hair grins, reaches back and snaps the loose material of her pants, and locks the suddenly impressive muscles in her thighs.

  I’m not sure I entirely get what you’re saying, you say, not quite sure who you are saying it to.

  At this, Tulip steps forward, pulls her hands out of her back pockets, and says, show me how the takedown/immobilizing thing gets done.

  A piece of floor is chosen, a table is pushed aside. Mr. Kindt, who has been smothering strawberries in heavy cream in the kitchen, comes in and beams. The first murderer clears his throat and crosses his arms. A silence broken only by a forlorn rattling in the wall and the mued clanking of wind and scaffolding descends upon your company. The fraternal twins nod, then do something and in half a heartbeat Tulip is lying down very still on the carpet smiling and breathing quickly with her arms and legs pinned and a knee pressed against her chest. For effect, you suppose, the first murderer then walks forward, bends over, and gently slaps Tulip’s cheek. They let her go, and you all clap, and then, as if the front door was stage right, the two friends walk out.

  So now you are six for cream and strawberries and then four because the knockout is no longer feeling well, she has announced, and you have watched her, arm in arm with Anthony, walk out the door. Instead of being more than slightly discomfited, instead of thinking very actively about Anthony and his distaste for what Mr. Kindt has asked you to do, however, you stand there wishing the two friends had held you down, had looked coldly across your body as they bent over you, had pressed a knee into your chest, so you ask Tulip how it was and she says, quite fascinating and not too painful, and you say, show me, and she says, shhh.

  The first murderer is speaking. He is looking at you.